Cute Girls With Guns
by Child of Loki
Summary: /Callen recruits some help to deal with his blogging neighbor. / Contains Post-eps for 5x05, 5x06 & 5x09. Nell & Callen Friendship (and a little more?)
1. Ch 1: A Post-Ep 5x05 Unwritten Rule

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS:LA or its characters…**

**Author's Note: So I couldn't leave last week's episode (**_**Unwritten Rule **_**) alone. Yes, please, dearest tv series writers, more Callen and Nell interaction (doesn't have to be flirty or romantic, although I would quite enjoy that) and badass Nell.**

* * *

The bar and grill is dimly lit but not yet vacant, though it's nearing closing time at about 3am. It's been a long, interesting day. Pretty standard as far as his life goes, but outside of the comfort zone for a couple of their people. One of whom he spots still perched on a stool at the bar. He thought she departed at the same time as the rest of their team, but her figure is unmistakable, looking like an illegally young patron with a fake ID as she slowly nurses a beer, the soft light making her auburn hair glow like a halo.

G Callen smiles to himself as he studies her, thinking of the incident she relayed to him earlier, about the old man on the scooter calling her a 'ginger bitch'. The 'bitch' part isn't amusing to him. Old man or not, he would've given the guy a stern talking to for calling Nell Jones such a name. But 'ginger'... not a common phrase in American slang, but an absolutely perfect descriptor of the young woman. Her hair isn't flamboyantly red, but a more subtle auburn hue, closer to that of ground ginger. And her personality isn't that unlike the spice. Seemingly smooth and comforting but with a subtle burning intensity. He honestly didn't think she would last in the beginning, but Nell Jones has more than proven herself and her fit with the Office of Special Projects. She's grown as an agent right before his eyes. He'd like to think he at least has had a little to do with it, but has to admit it's likely primarily Hetty's tutelage.

The smart, energetic young woman is looking a little down, which Callen admittedly doesn't like to see. His life isn't much to celebrate, so he tends to take joy in seeing his friends happy -and she is a friend, isn't she? Not just a coworker. He'd like to think so, anyway. And if they aren't really to the 'friend' state of the relationship, then he'll just have to do something about it, like try to cheer her up after a hard day.

So he grabs his nearly empty bottle, downs the last swig of beer, and leaves the table in the dark corner where he's been brooding. Honestly, he hasn't been purposely brooding. It's just something that sort of happens when he's alone, which, might as well face it, is a lot of the time.

"Rough day," he says after he places the empty bottle on the bar and asks the bartender for another. Nell looks up from her own slowly depleting supply of alcohol, and smiles tiredly.

"Yeah, I guess," she says. Callen frowns. She looks even more down than just the slumped posture indicated from across the room.

"I said it before, but I'll say it again. You did well today, Nell." Her smile brightens a little, but it's not quite the reaction he hoped for. "Are you rethinking your active field status?"

"No!" she says quickly, straightening on the stool and locking eyes with him. "It's not that." Her cheeks flush a little and she lowers her voice. "I actually enjoyed that part, the whole chasing down a suspect thing."

He feels his own grin broaden. "That's nothing to be embarrassed about, Nell. We're all adrenaline junkies. We have to be to do this job."

She nods, then returns her attention to the dark glass before her. His own fresh drink has arrived, so he takes a swig, letting the silence settle between them, testing it to see if it holds awkwardness or the more comfortable feel of friendship. It stretches on and he's happy to note that he doesn't feel compelled to fill it. He begins to study her again. She's still looking contemplative and a little sad. Obviously, he hasn't rooted out the issue that's nagging at her. What else did she have to deal with today? Besides cranky old geezer and bad traffic, and a confrontation with a suspect who assaulted her and tried to do a runner? Oh.

"Must have been a fun day fending off all those smitten..." Callen tries to think of a different term, one less derogatory, but can't. After all, they were clearly- "...nerds."

Nell laughs derisively.

"And then Eric showed up, too, didn't he?" Now Callen is beginning to see the problem. The technical operator has a painfully obvious crush on his partner, but as for Nell... she was definitely flirting with the notion for a while, but lately Callen has seen more than one look of frustration pass over her pretty face when Eric's feelings bleed through (more like spray all over the place like a giant, gaudy fountain).

Nell's forehead hits the bar with a thump. Callen is pretty certain the accompanying groan denotes her emotional state more than any pain associated with the act of cranium hitting hardwood.

"Why me?" she asks, sitting up once more and pinning him with a startling intense look, slightly accusatory, like he were personally responsible. Or maybe, just his being the nearest member of the male species has elected him spokesperson. He takes another, _long_, pull of his beer. This topic is now bordering on conversations girls have with one another. And _not_ ones young women have with their older, _male _coworker. But hey, he wanted to be friends.

Okay, he didn't want to be _friends_ this badly. So Callen plays it stupid with a shrug. Unfortunately this seems invitation to continue.

"Why do I attract the _nerds_?" she asks, her voice an exasperated quasi-whine in tone. She takes a breath, locks eyes with him again. Nell Jones does have lovely, expressive eyes. "Seriously. Why?"

He downs the rest of the bottle before placing it on the bar and turning back to Nell Jones. The girl hasn't figured it out yet. And he rarely gets to impart any wisdom he's learned in his screwed up life. So he might as well help a friend out... if he can.

"Ner-um- Guys like Eric," he says. "Not a lot of people get them, understand their interests, the way they think. You can."

Nell sighs. "True."

"And you're cute." This earns him a partial smile and a blush.

"And you carry a gun." This time he gets an eye roll.

"So then why do I only attract... um... guys like Eric?" she asks. And this he knows is her real problem, what has her sitting alone at a bar at 3 am, wondering what's wrong with her, when the answer to that is...

"Nothing is wrong with you, Nell," Callen says, being sure to hold her lovely hazel gaze. "And you don't _only_ attract Guys like Eric."

She's giving him a look that says 'you're out of your mind.'

"You intimidate us."

Maybe he shouldn't have said _us_. But he did just down a beer in less than ten minutes after drinking fairly steadily for the entire night. And now Nell Jones is giving him a seriously incredulous, and slightly hurt look, as if he were mocking her.

"I'm serious, Nell Jones."

He probably shouldn't have placed his hand under her chin to force her to look up at him. Because her skin is _so_ smooth and warm.

"Not only are you pretty, but you're tough. And intelligent. Too intelligent for some of us to handle."

"_Some of us_?" she asks, staring up at him with those damned big, piercing hazel eyes of hers. She's got to be drunk or pretty near it, but her eyes are as clear as ever.

"Yeah," he says absently, willing himself to remove his hand from her chin, his gaze from her face, and failing miserably. "Don't worry, Nell. You'll find someone who can handle you."

He really shouldn't be touching her face, staring into her eyes. And he really, really shouldn't be thinking about kissing her. But he hadn't been lying. More than just 'nerds' are attracted to intelligent women. God, did he ever have a thing for them. Smart women are just so goddamn sexy. Not really ever knowing what's going through their beautiful head, the mystery of them, the pride in being able to reach them, connect with them. But not Nell Jones. There will be no connecting with Nell Jones, beyond friendship. Even if he _could _handle her right and proper.

Thankfully, G Callen wins this battle, and breaks the moment, stepping back from the smart, cute girl... with a gun.

* * *

**A/N: I tried to keep this straight friendship, but I just can't seem to resist throwing even just a hint of attraction in there, now can I?**


	2. Ch 2: A Post-Ep 5x06 Big Brother

**Author's Note: Okay. So this season so far has super-awesome fodder for fanfic inspiration. (How could one resist Callen's stalking, blogging, crushing neighbor… and how flustered it made him?) It made sense to continue this from the other episode tag, in which Callen and Nell are developing a closer friendship… and maybe more?**

**Post-ep/Spoliers (of a sorts) for 5x06 (**_**Big Brother**_**)**

**WARNING: Some Coarse Language.**

* * *

"Nell?"

She stirs and grumbles, rolling over and blinking her large sleepy eyes at him. He's learned over the past few weeks that Nell is not in fact a morning person. She's been deceiving them all with her early hour buoyancy at the office. That exuberance, Callen has discovered after several mornings spent with a grouchy ginger, is a result of about a quart of black tea and extremely sugary pastry. He takes her grumble and whimper as a 'what do you want, you evil bastard who has woken me up before 8am on a Saturday in which I do not have to go into work?'

"Will you go get my paper?"

She sits up slightly, asking "What?" as if he's just spoken ancient Martian to her.

"The newspaper was just delivered." He tries to draw on more patience than he might actually possess, reminding himself that she's only here because she's doing _him_ a favor. "I want you to go get it."

She groans, and falls dramatically back onto the sofa.

"Make do without it," she mumbles, cuddling back into the tangled mess of blankets.

"I want you to get it," he says again. This time, she snaps to wide attention, and then glares at him.

"I'm pretending to be your girlfriend, Callen," she says. "Not your servant. Or is that why you're single? Can't find a woman to do your every bidding?"

He bites his tongue. Pre-Caffeine-And-Sugar-Nell is not pleasant. But she is the one doing_ him _a favor, a _huge_ favor. But having her sleeping on his couch and not being seen by his annoying, stalking, _blogging _neighbor defeats the entire point.

"On Saturday, the paperboy hits our street at precisely 7:12am. Within ten minutes, Elise always retrieves her paper from the curb."

Nell raises an eyebrow at him.

"Because I always retrieve my paper by 7:20am." He clears his throat. This whole situation makes him quite uncomfortable. He's never had trouble attracting women, but usually they get the hint he's not interested in a relationship and go elsewhere. Also, he generally moves before neighbors can become a problem. But after Sam made a somewhat big deal out of the blogging-stalking neighbor thing, Callen knew he had to take more drastic measures, including recruiting Nell.

"Really? Mr. Routine-Will-Get-You-Killed?" she asks.

"Nell!"

"Okay. Okay." She flips back the blankets and climbs off the sofa, which he purchased specifically for her to sleep on when she stays over, at least once a week, as agreed. She's wearing her rose-pink set of pajamas, a matching pair of satin shorts and camisole, trimmed with just a hint of ivory lace. Somehow, he no longer can picture her sleeping in anything else. They're so _her_.

She stretches and he adverts his gaze from the muscles that tighten and pull in the lithe little body, trying not to think about the flash of navel as her top rides up, a sight he's caught on three separate occasions now. Just another small price to pay for the ruse. Or maybe a bonus. He's not sure he wants to know which he actually thinks it is.

"I'm very careful that no one links G Callen with this house. The man who lives here is just an ordinary guy, one who reads the newspaper every day. One who would appreciate if his _girlfriend_ would go out and get it for him."

"Yeah, yeah." She walks off towards his bedroom, making him frown.

"Nell, what are you doing?" he asks from the door as she kicks at the pile of clothes in the corner of the mostly vacant room. She picks up a shirt off the pile and turns to him, holding it out. "You wore this yesterday, right?"

Callen nods, slowly beginning to understand what she's at. After a couple seconds she gives him a 'Well?!' look.

"Turn around," she says slowly, as if he were an idiot child, and he obeys. He hears the soft satin of her pajamas hit the floor with the gentlest of _whoosh_es. After what seems like an eternity -at this rate Blogger-Stalker Elise is going to miss the sight of his _girlfriend_ wandering out to pick up the paper- he turns around to find Nell dressed in his shirt but mid-process of pulling her bra out through the sleeve of the bright blue button-down that covers more of her than her pajamas did. She extricates the garment and lets it fall to the floor, giving him a look the likes of which he'd never expected to see on Nell Jones' face. Ever. She's gotten _way_ to comfortable with him over the past few weeks. He tries not to notice that her matching panties are lying next to the bra.

"Authenticity," she says, as she walks by him. "There are two reasons a woman wears a man's shirt. And this early in the morning, it's definitely because she can't find her underwear."

Callen is not sure he wants to contemplate upon what exactly Nell has founded her assertion. It's hard to think of the young woman, petite as she is, with big eyes, a charming smile, and generally gentle nature, as anything but completely innocent. But if he's learned anything over the past few weeks, it's how very complex a person Nell Jones is. She's very intelligent, in more than a 'retaining facts' sort of way. True to her job title, she's superb at analysis, puts things together quickly, sees patterns, evaluates and forms valid conclusions in mere fractions of the amount of time it would take he himself, an agent trained to react quickly. More than that, she's knowledgeable upon a number of subjects and always, _always _eager to learn more. On several occasions, she's questioned him on the random projects he's had splayed out on his living room floor, fuel for his insomniac brain, examined them thoroughly, coming back several hours or days later with a solution, which she delivers in a surprisingly non-condescending way. And on top of the genius aptitude she displays on a daily basis, the young woman has a sense of humor that's proven to be actually not far off from his own.

And so he sidles up to one of his front windows as she closes the door behind her, and peers out through the blinds to watch the scene unfold on his lawn. The teenager across the street and his friend are playing basketball. Well, they were. The ball bounces a couple times and then begins to roll away as the two boys catch sight of Nell as she reaches the curb, and bends over to pick up the rolled up newspaper. He thinks it's a little obvious of her, but the boys aren't complaining about her play-acting, probably because of the view. Callen wonders if she even noticed them. While he does not doubt they have a terrific view down the front of his shirt, of her most decidedly _not_ flat chest, she's giving his side of the street, and possibly even intending the display for Callen himself, the excellent sight of her shapely backside. The tails of his shirt have worked their way up the backs of her thighs, so that he knows -_the whole fucking world knows_- that with just another fraction of an inch of movement, the curve of her buttocks would be visible. He's definitely not given her enough credit in the realm of undercover agent potential.

He shakes off the image of that heart shaped bottom barely covered by the blue cotton of his shirt, and searches the street. There. Elise is making her way down the sidewalk. That woman _is _a morning person. She's fresh, showered, clothed, ready for the day. But the chipper smile on her face (obviously meant for him) falters as she spots Nell, before a fake one supplants it. Straightening, Nell says something along the lines of 'good morning' and waves genially. Elise returns the gesture. Nell begins to walk barefoot back towards his door, sauntering more than he'd ever guess the young woman knew how to do. Not too bad a result, he supposes. He would've preferred if the women had struck up a conversation, one in which Nell informed his blogger-stalker neighbor that Nell was indeed Callen's girlfriend, and that things were pretty serious, and whatever sweet, unassuming language women used to tell another of their sex to 'back the fuck off'. But one can only be patient in such a long game.

Nell spots him and rolls her eyes heavily as she covers the last few feet to his door.

Maybe he should've opted for being more straightforward with Elise. But emotionally convoluted situations such as crushes, unrequited love and diaries posted so all the world could see them, was not really his strong suit. Running an operation with deceit and lies for the 'greater good'... well, that's more his thing.

He heads for the kitchen to put the kettle on. Nell is going to need some really strong tea this morning, or his day is going to be off to a very rocky start, despite a somewhat successful move in the Fool-the-Blogger-Stalker-Neighbor operation.

* * *

**A/N: I think the setup is pretty self-explanatory, so I jumped ahead to some fun stuff. We'll probably get more details about Callen's plan and how he approached and convinced Nell to agree to playing his girlfriend. **

**A/N 2: Sorry to my readers following other fics. I just can't help myself. I get so distracted with these two. Honestly, there are always at least half a dozen stories playing out in my head about Nell & Callen. Not to mention others... And there's quite an involved, twisty plot formulating off from this point.  
**


	3. Ch 3: Eavesdropping

**Author's Note: Haven't had a lot of time for writing. And I had intended to update some of my other fics first, but this scene popped into my head and demanded attention until I finally submitted and wrote it. **

**Completely Random Note: How freaking adorable was that Sam-Callen 'You're my best friend and you almost just died' hug in episode 5x08? Definitely my favourite **_**NCIS:LA **_**moment ever.**

* * *

Assistant Director Granger enters through the back door of the old Mission that houses the Office of Special Projects, and as he progresses towards its heart, is considering what he'll encounter on this particular visit to his.. well, not _exactly_ least favorite... more like _most trying _of NCIS teams under his purview, when the sound of a man and woman talking makes him slow. Of course it's not strange that he would find a couple of agents conversing at work. Not even strange that they would step into one of the rarely used corridors for a more private exchange. What is strange however, is the nature of the conversation. In particular because he thinks he recognizes the voices. He puts his back to the wall and listens to the conversation taking place just around the corner, a furrow deepening his brow.

"I stayed at your place last night," the woman says.

"I know. But I want you to stay over again tonight," the man who sounds a whole like Agent Callen is saying. It's that distinctive, commanding tone. With another man, this conversation would sound like whining. With Callen, it's all confidence.

"I'm exhausted. I want to sleep in my own bed." The woman's voice is also distinctly familiar. But it just can't be who his brain is telling him it is... "I want to sleep! You're starting to tire me out."

"A deal's a deal, Nell." Granger hazards a quick glance around the corner. It is who he thought, but how is that even possible?! The pair had never given any indication... at least not in his presence... but maybe they're just very good at being sneaky. But this display is certainly not remotely discreet, as their voices begin to rise in temperament and volume. "If you don't deliver, then don't expect anything in return from me."

"Fine." Nell Jones sounds pissed, but resigned. "But you are going to do whatever I tell you, no matter how much you hate it, no matter how painful you think it is."

Whoa. This really can't be what it sounds like. Yet, blame that basic human perverse curiosity, he can't just walk away. Or straighten, round the corner and demand answers, like he probably should do.

"That's the agreement," Callen says. And then there's a pause, in which Granger can feel the tension even with a thickly plastered brick wall between his back and the pair. Whatever it is going on, it's obviously not romantic, as he first suspected. But it's definitely sounding illicit.

"You left these on my bedroom floor," Callen says, and Granger peers around the corner again just in time to see the small red head grab the bundle of lacy fabric from the senior agent's hand, frantically gathering up what are clearly bra cups that Callen had dangled loosely in front of her.

"You couldn't have waited until I came over to return them?" Nell snaps. Even from ten feet away, Granger can see the furious blush coloring her pale skin, and wonders that Callen shouldn't have known better than to deliberately antagonize the young woman. But maybe that's what gets the younger man off. Well, younger than Granger himself maybe, but still old enough to know better than to stir up the temper of the twenty-something he's sleeping with... or whatever it is going on between the pair. It sounds more like an exchange of sexual favors for something... but what? No matter, it is most definitely not within NCIS behavioral guidelines for agents. If they were just sleeping together... She has active field status, but she's not a designated field agent. They're not partners. And while in operational situations, she will take orders from him directly, Agent Callen is not technically her boss.

"I didn't know if I'd see you tonight," Callen says in an appeasing tone, that nonetheless holds a tinge of amusement.

"You knew damn well I'd say 'yes'." What kind of hold does the senior agent have on the young analyst?

"Maybe I just thought you might need them." Ouch. An obviously ridiculous excuse. He's in for it now. But Nell just laughs.

"You very well know I have more than one set of those," she says, blushing in a different sort of way. This time, Granger is absolutely fascinated to see Callen's ears redden as well, though he gives no other sign of embarrassment. Strange.

"Uh. Yeah," he says, chuckling. "That was sort of my idea, wasn't it?"

What the hell are these two up to? Granted, it's not really his business what they do in their off-hours, unless it affects their job performance. But this... it's hard to quantify, to say the least.

"What do you want for dinner?" Callen asks. Apparently, the shared joke has broken the tension.

"I don't know. Surprise me." And with that, the petite red head whirls and stalks off, Agent G Callen shaking his head and chuckling as he follows at a more leisurely pace.

Granger steps out into the open and stares after the pair, somewhat dumbstruck.

"Owen."

He starts. God, he should be over that by now, after so many years of experience in his field, after so many years of experience with this specific individual. But damned if Henrietta Lange doesn't always manage to catch him off-guard. This time, he feels legitimized, however. Two of their agents are fraternizing... Okay. That's not a big deal. But by the sounds of it, the senior agent might be taking advantage of the intelligence analyst. It doesn't seem like something G Callen could be capable of, but that man plays his cards so goddamn close to his chest, who the hell knows what's residing in the depths of his character.

"Do we have a problem, Henrietta?" he asks, meeting her Gorgon Stare.

"Problem?" Obviously playing it stupid... well, never stupid. Not Hetty. Not even ignorant. Possibly she's going for uninformed? Or ambivalent? But Granger knows she cares about her people. It doesn't make sense.

"With Agent Callen and Miss Jones," Granger says, hesitantly, trying and failing to get a read on the old spy. "It sounds as if he's coerced her into some sort of arrangement..."

Oh, don't make him say it. But Hetty just stares in her falsely-blank manner. He clears his throat, lowers his voice to almost a whisper.

"... of a sexual nature."

Hetty laughs, her facade of incomprehension breaking.

"Nothing of the sort, Owen," she says, and then sobers. "But the fact that you could think such a thing..."

He throws his hands up in surrender. "Hey. I didn't say I thought it in-character for the man, only that it sure as hell sounded... _He had her underwear_. And forced her into agreeing to spend the night with him again."

Hetty's eyebrows shoot up her forehead, and then she composes herself with a serene sort of smile.

"I suppose that would sound quite scandalous, if one was not privy to the details of the arrangement between them."

"Details, Henrietta." He's not sure if he's asking or telling. But someone better do some explaining fast. Or he'll never be able to look either Callen or Nell Jones in the eye again.

"Miss Jones kindly agreed to play the role of Mr. Callen's girlfriend in order to dissuade an overly... _cordial_ neighbor from her unsolicited affections."

"The blogger." Of course. So rarely is the unflappable agent flustered, that the whole situation with his infatuated, stalker-ish neighbor became fast and favorite scuttlebutt and Owen actually had a good laugh when it reached his ears. And of course, the antisocial man couldn't handle the situation via normal means. Their agents are good at what they do, but sometimes, everyday life seems to be outside their capabilities. So Callen reacted the only way he knew how, recruiting the pretty young analyst to help him run an undercover op on his neighbor.

Hetty nods, gestures. "Shall we?"

She begins to walk back towards the center of the building and her office.

"What is it that brings you to our little operation today, Owen?" She asks. "I'm guessing you're not just here to eavesdrop and make outlandish assumptions."

He glares at Hetty as he naturally slows his gate to accommodate her pace.

"No," he says. But doesn't elaborate. Because damned if it hasn't fled his own mind.

* * *

**A/N: I've never written Granger before, so not sure how in-character he was here, but I couldn't resist the whole outsider-perspective-misunderstanding ploy. It's a classic for a reason. Too fun. Also, the plot for this has exploded in my head. Look for a twisty plot, full of fluff, fun, angst (because it's me) and some action, branching off from this little seedling.**

**Thank you, as always, for reading and for taking the time to leave feedback.**


	4. Ch 4: Cuddling

**Author's Note: Hello, dearest readers. Long time, no see! Or so it feels like, since I've been wanting/trying to get this chapter written down all week to no success (stupid 'real life'). And it's going to be another long week without you, since I'm officially on Vacation! Woo! Which means, likely no internet and no updates, but… and a capital B-ut, lots of time to write (hopefully), so maybe lots of updates when I get back!**

**For now, hope you enjoy this morsel (I rather liked writing it)!**

* * *

Callen did surprise her with his dinner choice.

She's still looking at her plate incredulously, when he takes his seat and then fixes his piercing blue gaze on her, and she realizes she's being rude. But give her a break. She's in shock. She's never seen him eat anything that wasn't take-out, fast food, off a cart or, basically, prepared by another human being. This is a skill she's never imagined he possesses. _Cooking? G. Callen?_

He raises an eyebrow at her, and so she hastily scoops up a bite on her fork, consisting of rice and a water chestnut coated in a viscous brown sauce. She puts the morsel in her mouth, withdraws the utensil, and very slowly -as if it might explode- begins to masticate. There is an explosion. But of a pleasant variety, as flavors burst forth on her tongue, first tangy, then sweet. And then, as she chews more enthusiastically and swallows, there's a little bite of spicy heat. Not overwhelming, but just enough.

"Mm," she says looking back up at the cook. "That's good."

As he smiles at her and tackles his own plate, Nell takes another bite, eating more eagerly now that she's determined that it's safe. More than safe. Rather good, actually.

"I didn't know you could cook," she says after she's put away about a third of the quite substantial serving on her plate (one of only two plates the man possesses, and mismatched to a degree that it's undeniable that he hastily acquired it since she's become a regular house guest, along with another mug, glass, bowl, and set of silverware).

"It's stir fry," he says. "Everyone can do that."

Nell thinks of her father, a man so completely hopeless in the kitchen that, if it weren't for her mother, would live off from cold cans of SpaghettiOs. Or set the house on fire by trying to microwave said can of cold SpaghettiOs. She makes a mental note to remove the microwave and other dangerous appliances from the home, if god forbid, her mother passes before her father does. But any such worry is a long way off. They're barely into their 50s. Although that's arguably an age at which one should know how to feed one's self.

"No," Nell says with a smile, and an internal laugh as she again tries to picture her father making stir fry. "Not everyone."

"You're thinking of your dad," he says, pouring her a glass of an Aussie Cab-Sav, her favorite for a glass of wine with dinner. She suddenly feels a rush of...what must be embarrassment, bloom in her stomach. Callen knows far too much about her. He's learned more about her life than anyone ever has in such a short period of time. Three weeks. Three weeks, and he not only knows the names of every single person in her immediate family (and grandparents, most of her aunts and uncles and several of her cousins, too), but also has the much more personal knowledge of their traits, both physical and personality-wise. He knows her dad can't cook. He knows her younger sister is a neo-hippie. He knows that she wants a glass of wine tonight, and that she wants it to be the Cabernet Sauvignon. And yet, she thinks she's okay with the intimacy. This arrangement might make for some awkward situations, such as prancing about his front lawn in nothing but his shirt (which is less clothing than she ever wears, even in her own apartment), or his discovery that she's as cranky as hell in the morning, or his being an oblivious (or malignantly purposeful) jerk and handing off her underwear in the office, which might be more awkward than seeing it hung out on the line in his backyard along with his clothing for the world to see. But she might just get a very good friend out of all of this. The straightforward kind. The kind who, when he wants something from her, just asks.

Which brings to mind what has been a severe stress point for her for the past few months. _Eric_.

She takes a large swallow of wine, pushing the thoughts of her unfortunately-smitten coworker and friend out of her mind.

"Yeah," she says, returning to the conversation, she hopes not too late to make him wonder at where her mind wandered.

"You miss him?" he asks, apparently thinking her daydream had been about the distance from her family.

"I do," she says sincerely. "I miss all of them. A lot. I hate being so far..." she trails off, bites her lip as she realizes just who she _is _talking to, of how inconsiderate it is to whine like this.

He gives her a curious look.

"I'm sorry," she says. "It's selfish and ungrateful of me to complain about not seeing my family for a few months when... I mean, you..."

_Oh, god. Foot-in-mouth, Nell. Foot-in-mouth._

Callen only smiles, a little bit sad, but not ungenuine.

"It's okay, Nell," he says. "You're anything but ungrateful. You have a right to miss your family. You don't take them for granted." He takes a swig of his beer. Perhaps numerous of his aliases are wine-drinkers, but G Callen is not. "And I like hearing you talk about them."

She blushes, focuses on cleaning her plate, and a comfortable silence settles between them as they finish their meal. Nell volunteers, and then insists on clearing up and washing almost every dish Callen owns... which is less than a dozen pieces. It takes her all of five minutes, and her blue-eyed companion is still sitting at the small table that looks like a child's play set in the vastly empty kitchen... in his vastly empty house. He's watching her. He does that sometimes. At first, she found it immensely disturbing to be going about a daily task, brushing her hair, checking her email, preparing breakfast, only to look up and find those bright blue eyes locked on her. Oddly, now she doesn't mind his often studious gaze. It's just... _Callen_. And she knows it's strange. But there's no judgment in the way he watches her, nothing that makes her self conscious and uncomfortable, as it would with other people.

But even though he has a tendency to study her for no apparent reason sometimes, Nell can tell that this time he's waiting for her. She's not sure why she does it, but she takes her time as she folds the dishtowel and neatly drapes it on the oven door, slowly turning to face him with a smile twitching her lips.

Maybe it's the wine still warming her pleasantly from the inside.

"Working on any projects tonight?" he asks, sounding nonchalant. But, oh, she knows why he's asking.

Nell admittedly has attention span issues. She likes to be busy. Side projects (that are completely unrelated to her time-consuming job) actually help her to relax. Callen stumbled upon her in the middle of one such project, her computer screen filled with windows containing code, digital art software, text files, and guidelines for childhood development programs, among other research. So she had to explain that in her spare time, she designed educational video games for children. He recognized some of the graphics, and she was forced to confess that she'd been using Sam's daughter for a beta tester. But not Sam's little boy? No. She believes video games are actually detrimental to a child's development before the age of five. They're learning at an astounding rate, and need to interact with the world to develop spatial orientation and dexterity. But she does have several ongoing projects at the moment...

"Hmmm..." She draws out her reply, maybe just to see if she can get her friend to drop his impeccable facade, just for a moment, and reveal what he's thinking. He simply continues to watch her, patiently. "I've got a couple of things to keep me busy... Or..."

She waits to see if he'll bite. Nothing. Damn him and his self discipline.

"Maybe I'll just watch some netflix."

He nods. Just nods. As if he has no opinion on the matter. As if he won't show up five minutes after she's settled onto the couch in the master bedroom (where he's put her up, since he resides in the same room he occupied all those years ago) to sit down beside her and... well, they've sort of gotten into this habit of...um... _cuddling? _She's not exactly sure how it happened. Maybe he rested his arm on the back of the couch behind her (which is just a massive invitation, isn't it?), and she leaned her head on his shoulder. Or maybe it was just a confluence of random factors that spontaneously generated the act of cuddling. All she knows is that one moment they were two people sitting on a couch watching a super-hero tv show on her laptop that was setup on the coffee table (the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the couch), and the next... _cuddling_. If it only happened the once, if it were any other man... but G Callen is not the type to do anything he doesn't want to do. But damned if she can guess his reasons. He probably is hoping Stalker-Blogger Elise is a voyeur and will catch them snuggled up on the couch for the night, just like a real couple. Or maybe, like herself, he's feeling starved for human affection, to be touched, but in a way that holds no obligation, no demand for something else, something more. Closeness just for the sake of closeness. Because deep down, under her layers of independence and self-consciousness, Nell Jones is a cuddler. She grew up with a sizable, affectionate family. So many nights of her childhood were spent snuggled up with her brothers and sisters on the living room floor to watch their favorite TV show. And they'd always been huggers, except for that awkward 'too cool to hug' teenager phase. And she misses that variety of human contact since she's moved away. She's contemplated cuddling up to Eric on one of their movie nights, but that will only confuse the poor guy, she knows. He won't understand that for her, it's a platonic act. But apparently, Callen understands.

"Or continue the Tarantino marathon?" She offers a bit more enticement, as if she needs to do so...

"Maybe I'll join you."

Nell bites her tongue. _Maybe_? Oh, he's so going to be snuggled up on the couch with her. What else is he going to do? Take apart Jennifer's carburetor again, just for the hell of it? Nell knows that the only project he has laid out on the living room floor at the moment is the reconstructed part for Sam's '70 Challenger, which Callen bought for his friend to replace the lost restored muscle car, Charlene (whose fate only Nell and Eric truly know). She also knows he finished up working on that the previous night (well, probably at about 3am, but it was back in one piece when Nell was rousted for newspaper retrieval duty like the family dog).

"Okay," she says, heading for the bathroom. She finds her pajamas folded neatly in the corner next to her towel and smiles. She didn't leave them in that state. They were called in to the OSP rather suddenly and in her haste to get out the door so she could make a quick stop at her place, she left the garments crumpled in a pile on his bedroom floor along with those goddamn panties and bra he felt compelled to return to her for some reason. That man certainly is a puzzle. She's admittedly given it more than a little consideration, but hasn't yet figured out why he'd do such a thing. Publicly embarrassing her isn't really his cup of tea. And if it were, why pull her aside? Was it just one of his teasing games? One of his tests, as he tries to figure her out? What is there left to figure out about her, anyway? She already feels like he's read the entire book on her life. And she hasn't even deciphered the writing on the spine of his. Perhaps the problem is that it's in Cuneiform. Because she just doesn't understand him. Bringing her underwear to work to get a rise out of her, but folding up her pajamas and towel and leaving them in a neatly placed pile in the bathroom for her...

She washes up for bed and puts on her pajamas. She considers brushing her teeth but she can smell popcorn (and she freely admits she'll scarf down a ton of it despite feeling rather full from dinner). Oh, Callen is most definitely joining her for the evening. As expected, less than a minute after she settles onto the sofa and is fiddling with her laptop to load 'Jackie Brown', the man appears with a steaming bag of microwaveable popcorn. Of course, he has nothing so extravagant as a large bowl for eating popcorn out of while curled up with a friend to watch some not-so-mindlessly violent movie. But Nell could care less. It provides an excuse for leaning further into him when he sits down with the bag of popcorn and she reaches for a handful of buttery deliciousness. The aroma of the popcorn is pervasive, but she still finds the scent of the man beneath it. And she does rather enjoy the smell of G Callen. She's noticed it fluctuates, depending on what the day has held for the agent, but always contains the same few scents that form the olfactory signature entirely unique to him. Clean, non-perfumed soap. Gun powder. Sometimes leather, if he's been wearing that one (admittedly quite) sexy jacket. And the heady musk of a man's sweat, often subtle, sometimes not. And she sort of, well, _loves _it. And she doesn't know why. It never overwhelms her, either in a repulsive or arousing way. It... It _engulfs_ her, wraps her up like a cozy, comforting quilt. As does the pleasant warmth of his body. Her perpetually cool fingers itch briefly to sneak their way under his soft cotton t-shirt to seek the heat of his skin that the warmth ebbing off from him promises. But that would be _too far_, she knows. An inexcusable liberty that would break the bounds of their nascent close friendship.

So instead, she snuggles up to his side, lays her head against his shoulder and smiles happily as his arm settles around her.

It's nice to be cuddled.

* * *

**A/N: I know, just a bunch of boring character development. But I think we needed to see where Nell is at with this whole developing relationship. And unlike my other Nell/Callen fics, this one is going to be a slow build (but still with some action-y/angst-y/drama-y twists). I just have a hard time seeing their relationship begin in a typical 'I like you. Would like to go on a date?' manner. I have to trick them into liking each other in a romantic way. And this time, it's going to be a whole lot of skirting the edge of friendship, with some fun along the way. So I hope you stick with me. :-)**


	5. Ch 5: A Post-Ep 5x09 Recovery

**Author's Note: Boy, is season five ever teasing my imagination ;-) Another post-ep (for 5x09 Recovery), of sorts, worked into the now growing plot for this story. **

**The real reason why Callen was researching tattoos…**

**(PS, I know it's obviously late, but yay! For internet-free vacations!)**

* * *

"A heart."

Nell turns away from the scene of a drunken Kensi and Deeks dancing (well, if you can call it dancing) near the juke box at the other side of the mostly vacant pub, to smile at G Callen, who's sidled up to the bar beside her, beer in hand.

"On your hip."

She feels her smile widen. This is probably not a game she should've started. But somehow, the other night at his place, they got onto the topic of tattoos. She revealed that there indeed was some 'ink' on her person, but declined to share the details. Rather than accept her (admittedly purposefully teasing reluctance), he egged it on by showing more interest. The end result was a bet. If he can guess what it is, she owes him a beer. If he can't, he owes her a drink. And if he can also guess _where_ it is, she'll show him the skin art.

"My next drink's on you," she says, happy he chose that moment to place his guess. Because her beer was about empty. He nods, giving her a wink before he places an order with the bartender. The shot of whiskey that appears before her is a bit unexpected, but she trusts Callen enough to know that it's at least of a decent quality, something he thinks she would like. Or is he just testing her again, thinks she's not the whiskey type? She throws back the shot, but doesn't swallow immediately, letting the flavor of the single malt settle on her tongue briefly. She was right. It isn't bad, the burn of the alcohol a pleasant warmth when she swallows, rather than the harsh bite of inferior whiskies.

When she turns back to him once more, she finds he's really smiling, that gorgeous full-on smile that could undeniably charm any woman (and probably a hell of a lot of men, too, if he swung that way) into bed.

"You don't have a 'tramp stamp', do you, Nell?" He doesn't seem serious, but that is the sort of tattoo women of her age generally end up with, isn't it? And with her pajamas, he already knows her ink isn't anywhere on her legs (well, below her upper thigh), arms, neck or upper back. She wonders what he's thinking, if maybe he'd like her with a 'tramp stamp', is imagining running his thumbs over her permanently stained skin, tracing the wings of a butterfly or Celtic knot residing at the base of her spine, just above her buttocks, as his fingers grip her waist or hips, because he's got her on all fours...

Wow. Perhaps that whiskey was stronger than she thought. Or not strong enough…

"Another drink will buy you another guess," she says. He chuckles, and orders her another shot. Nell's not a crazy drinker. But she definitely doesn't abstain from alcohol, either. She knows her limits, knows that this next shot will keep her buzzed for the next hour or so, but not get her blind drunk. And she feels safe in the company of her team mates and friends enough to become a little _happy_. So she throws it back, and then swivels the stool on which she's perched, placing her back to the bar to stare at the dozen or so patrons, a good number of which are her coworkers. Kensi and Deeks have devolved from trying to out-dance the other to squabbling over which should be their next selection on the old school juke box. Callen is leaning with his back against the bar beside her, watching their friends. Sam and Eric appear to be having a severely in-depth conversation, about what exactly, Nell can't quite guess. But both of the men appear to be really into it, sitting at a high round bar table, using toothpicks and peanut shells as a visual aide to the vehement discussion.

After a few minutes, and another song has played out, inciting another round of _discussion_ between Kensi and Deeks, whose game for the evening appears to be of the 'campy 80s music knowledge' variety, Callen shifts, drawing her eye. He's finished his bottle of beer, placing it on the bar, but instead of ordering another, he turns to Nell.

She encourages him with an expectant smile.

"Flower," he says, hesitates, then adds as he catches her gaze with his sparkling blues, "On your ass."

The blood rushes to her face, giving him all the answer he needs.

"No, really?"

She licks her lips. Her mouth has gone dry.

"Not quite," she says. "It's a specific kind of flower. But that's close enough to earn you a beer."

She hastily swivels around to catch the bartender and order Callen another of the imported craft brews. His fingers close gently around her upper arm, and he swivels her around, as yet another (in Nell's opinion) highly annoying 80s pop tune begins to blare from the juke box. She tries to avoid his curious, and highly amused gaze, but finds herself unable to do so.

"But I got the location right, didn't I?" he asks, staring at her in that studious, unreadable way he excels at. She's not drunk enough for this. Five minutes ago, she felt her blood to be warm and humming enough for what was certainly skirting flirtation. But not now. The bartender delivers Callen's beer, and Nell asks for a third shot of whiskey, downing it as soon as the glass is filled.

Callen's still staring at her, into her, when she feels properly shored up by the heat in her belly to face him again. God, his eyes are _gorgeous_.

"Yes." She's certain now that Callen hasn't cheated, by figuring out she told Eric about her tattoo and conning the information out of the tech geek. At first, she hesitated when the conversation came up that day, inwardly amused by the fact that she had caused the whole 'tat' discussion theme for the day. What Eric didn't know, what none of them knew, was that Callen's little research project was to win the bet with Nell, rather than personal interest. And she admittedly wondered whether Callen might use Eric to discover the answer. But she didn't tell Eric where her tattoo is located. Or why. And Callen is looking at her so intently, obviously attempting to puzzle her out, that she just knows his guess was a completely honest one.

"There's an interesting story there," he says. It's not a question, but definitely an invitation, if she cares to accept. That much is made even more apparent when he pulls up the empty stool behind him to sit close enough to her to listen to a conversation at a quieter level.

"Yes. There is," she says. She sighs. Because whatever he's imagining is far worse than the truth. Or perhaps, far better... But they're just friends. And the sooner the man stops contemplating her naked, tattooed ass, the better, for them both. She looks him in the eyes, and explains fast. "I fell out of a tree house as a child and landed on some barbed wire. It left a permanent mark. My first boyfriend... well, not _boyfriend_. I had boyfriends before. My first sexual partner, he, um, he told me my ass would be a lot more attractive if it weren't for that ugly scar. I guess I didn't have good self esteem then. I went to a tattoo parlor and told them to give me whatever would cover up the scar the best."

Callen's expression is all serious now. She tries not to appreciate that it's likely because he's indignant at the old insult that was paid her years ago. She shrugs, as if the hurt of those words, that criticism, is long forgotten.

"It's a rose." She stares directly into those goddamn _fucking _gorgeous blue eyes, adding, "With thorns."

This earns her a smile once more. He raises his beer to toast her before taking a long pull. The whiskey's thrumming in her veins, making her float in a pleasant manner. And before she knows exactly what she's doing, she's leaning towards him, placing a hand on his knee to steady the spinning of the world as she whispers in his ear.

"So, you won. Do you still want to see my tat?"

He smells so _fucking _good that she lingers close a bit, before she finally pulls back, trying to straighten herself as the world spins some more. She catches the surprised look on his face before he quickly schools it. His hand covers hers on his knee and he gently lifts it, setting his beer on the counter to free his other hand to cup her cheek and claim her attention. And he's staring at her with that _fucking_ _gorgeous _blue, studious, soul-piercing, unintentionally seductive, blue, blue, oh, so_ blue_ gaze.

"I think it's time to call a cab."

"Is that a 'yes', G Callen?" Maybe she's a little drunk. But it's hard to care, because his hands shift to her waist, and they feel _so _good that she can't quite decide if she rather have those eyes staring into her, or those hands on her body. To possess both simultaneously would doubtless kill her. He lifts her off the stool and sets her on her feet, one hand remaining on her waist as he collects her bag and walks her towards the door, stopping as they pass Sam and Eric to inform them that she's asked him to take her home, which she never! Well, she supposes that she did, of a sort... Take her home and she'll show him her tattoo... And...

...

G Callen is reading the paper, drinking his second cup of coffee when his house guest finally makes an appearance at 11am. He can't help but smirk at her. Nell Jones' auburn hair is beyond 'tousled'. It's a rat's nest, sticking up here and there and tangled into a large knot in the back. She must have tossed and turned a lot on the narrow sofa. But he'd never heard a thud indicating that she'd fallen off in the middle of the night. Or any sounds associated with her being drunk to the point of illness. She just looks a touch hung over this morning. And it really probably is his fault. He bought her that first shot of whiskey. But she asked for the second two. And she didn't have to drink them. But maybe she wouldn't have drunk them if he wasn't making her uncomfortable with the whole tat game thing. It was flirtation. Plain and simple. And he shouldn't have done it. Not when they're in the midst of this strange arrangement of pretending to be close, which he himself set up.

At least he was gentleman enough to tuck her up in her own bed -well, sofa- and after he was sure she wasn't dangerously drunk and leaving a bottle of water on the coffee table for her, head directly to his own room... Despite the temptation. And he would be a liar if he didn't admit there was a temptation there, in the suggestion the young woman had made at the bar, the pleasant warmth of her, her lithe little body, her soft hair and big eyes, and in the teasing promise of the hidden tattoo. But Nell is a friend of his, one of so few. And last night, she'd been drunk.

Now... Now she's shuffling slowly over to plop down in the vacant chair across the table from him. He fetches her a fresh bottle of cold water from the fridge to place alongside the bottle of aspirin on the table in front of her.

"Thanks," she says with a raspy voice. She takes a long drink of water, and then swallows a couple aspirin with another long drink. Last night, she was drunk. But not _so_ drunk, Callen thinks, as he compares her state to her usual cranky morning demeanor. She doesn't say anything else for a few minutes, staring down at her lap, her rumpled dress. He took her shoes and cardigan off, but refused to go any further than that. If she'd become uncomfortable in the middle of the night, she could've taken her own leggings or dress off.

"Um... about last night..." she says.

Callen really doesn't want to have this conversation. He doesn't want it to be a _thing_. He likes Nell Jones. And he doesn't want her to feel uncomfortable around him. Because then she won't want to spend time with him. And he likes spending time with her.

"Don't worry about it, Nell," he says. "We both had a little too much to drink and strayed out of bounds."

She nods, but still doesn't meet his eyes.

"Okay."

Damn. She's not okay.

"Nell, look at me."

She obeys, a blush on her cheeks. _Oh, shit_.

"You have nothing to be embarrassed about," he says, willing her to believe him. "We're friends, right?"

"Yes," she says.

"Pretending to be close like we are, it sometimes bleeds over into our real relationship, our friendship. It's not your fault any more than it's mine. We just need to pay more attention to the line."

She sighs, a relieved look on her face that causes the knot in his stomach to release.

"Agreed," she says. "Thank you for understanding."

"That's what friends do," he says, getting to his feet. "They also make their hung over house guests breakfast. What do you want?"

She's smiling her genuine, pretty smile, and he's so very glad he doesn't have to force himself to forget the previous night, to regret the flirtation, of seeing the unregulated, uncontrolled side of Nell Jones. Because she's beyond fascinating, and he admittedly is quite enjoying learning about her, getting to know her, becoming her… _friend_. Yes. Just her friend.

* * *

**A/N: I've got quite a handful of updates for you all, dearest readers, but the question is which would you like posted next? More of this? Or some of the others? (I do still have to give them another edit and polish before they're postable… so you can't have them all at once.)**


	6. Ch 6: Grieving Pt 1

**Author's Note: So um… this fic might contain a little bit of rough times for Nell Jones. But it's a good way to bring people closer together. (Okay, and I admittedly also like to abuse -in various fashions- my favourite characters.)**

**WARNING: Some emotional angst.**

* * *

Callen is waiting at the window, like a golden retriever anticipating the return of his long-pined for master (well, 'mistress' might be more fitting). And he's not sure why he's stationed there.

Okay. He knows why. He just doesn't want to admit it. It's silly. It's like he's a teenager again. Except, he was never normal. His teen years, like most of his childhood were spent being shuffled from one residence to the next, sometimes foster homes, sometimes group homes, or if not sugar-coated, outright orphanages. But there still were a couple girls, here and there, that made his life seem new and different, that just seeing their faces made his bad moods melt away. And now there's Nell Jones. A new element in his life. Yes, they've known each other, worked together for a while now, several years in fact. But they've only ever been, well loose friends? Somewhere between acquaintance and friend? But now, now he finds she's playing a role as significant as Sam Hanna in his every day life. He not only sees her every day, but now spends several days straight with her, morning through night. But more disturbing, he finds himself thinking about her when she's not with him.

And now, now he's standing at his front window, waiting for her. Like his life revolves around her. Like he's been looking forward to her coming over all day. It's been a long day, longer than it should've been. And it honestly scares him a little to realize the reason why it felt like an eternally long day was because hadn't contained her lovely face. It shouldn't matter that she was consulting over at the FBI office, and that they had to work on their case without her, without seeing her at all. He shouldn't be standing at the window because she called him ten minutes ago to say she was on her way home and then would head over to his place (as they planned the previous day... before he knew he wouldn't see her for an entire thirty-six hours and _my god _wasn't he pathetic?)

He's not sure how long he's been standing there at the window, only that his mood instantly lifts when he sees her Mini pull into his driveway. He refuses to rush to the door to greet her. But neither is he able to walk away and pretend to be immersed in some project or another. He wants to see her before she sees him, to watch her unobserved, to figure out what sort of day she's had by how long it takes her to get out of the car, by her posture, by the look on her face, by how bouncy her steps are -or conversely, how she may trudge reluctantly to his door if her mood is down.

She gets out of her car, looking as if she's still retaining most of her buoyant optimism, but pauses before she walks up to his door, fishing about in her purse. Has she suddenly realized she's forgotten something? Oh. Just her cell phone, which she answers, putting it to her ear. And then she freezes. Her bag tumbles from her fingers. She puts out a hand as if to steady herself, but finding nothing stable she crumples to the ground beside her purse and its disgorged contents.

He's at the door in less than two seconds, and running to her, standing over her, dumbstruck, a bit of panic tightening his chest. Because something's wrong with Nell Jones.

It should've been the first thing he did, but he'd been too concerned. Rushing out to the young woman was an instinctive reaction, one which he should evaluate in greater detail later. Because the first thing he should've done was check the scene. He glances about quickly, using his honed eye to spot any potential sources of danger. Finding none, he hastily returns his attention to the red head sitting in a limp heap on the ground.

"Nell?"

Crouching before her, he takes hold of her arms. She's not physically injured. Not that he can see. And she was on the phone, wasn't she? It now lies a foot away in the not-so-freshly mowed grass of his front lawn. Who called? What did they say to the young woman?

"Nell, are you okay?"

She sucks in a deep draught of air as if she had stopped breathing, and then begins to sob. Oh shit. It's bad. It's got to be very bad. Because despite being rather young and having a lovely smile that she employs frequently, Nell Jones is _not_ soft.

He waits a moment for her to finally recover slightly and look him in the eyes. Pure misery strikes him to the core and the bottom drops out of his stomach. He hates seeing people in pain (never wanted to see her suffer ever), but sadly he's seen it enough times to recognize this specific kind... _grief_.

"What's happened?" he asks quietly, calm now that he knows there's no immediate danger to Nell's life, that her agony isn't physical.

"A car accident," she says, her voice hoarse, tears streaming down her cheeks. "My sister... she..."

He sees the signs before she's even conscious of the reaction and moves to her side, sweeping her hair back out of the way as she retches into the non-neighborhood-society-regulation-length grass. Rubbing her back in light circles he waits for her to finish, the dry heaves interspersed with sobs of despair, and then pulls her tight against his chest, where she cries so intensely her entire body is shaking and he's afraid she's not getting enough oxygen to her brain. The front of his shirt is quickly becoming wet, and sticking to his chest, as well as stretched -if not torn- where her fingers have tangled into the soft fabric, gripping the garment as if it were a lifeline. Or perhaps to prevent herself from lashing violently out at the cruel world.

And he knows Nell's sister is dead. No one reacts like this to news that there's been an accident but their loved one will be fine... or 'it's too early to tell.' That old gem only blankets them in the numb abyss of worry, tension, waiting... waiting... But Nell's in the clutches of pure, devastating grief. And all he can do is hold her. Hold her while she suffers. There is nothing he can do or say to make it better, to ease her pain. This moment is hers, to feel, to get the pain out. Well, the dagger of it anyway. The ache and the healing takes much longer, and sometimes the wound remains always.

She's finally calming now, but he's pretty certain it's only because her body has hit a physical wall where it will begin to shut down if she doesn't stop sobbing to the point of hyperventilation. He continues to hold her. Because he doesn't know what else to do.

And then Elise decides to come home that very minute, pulling into the driveway next door, spotting the pair of them sitting in his shockingly overgrown lawn, and carefully exiting her car so as to leave the giant, excitable Bernese-and-something-or-other-mix in the back of the small hybrid, and please, _please _don't- oh, shit, walks over to them, a concerned look on her not unattractive face.

He shifts slightly, shielding Nell from his neighbor's voyeuristic gaze. No one should see Nell like this. The young woman does not deserve to have her private pain exposed to the world. He glances back over his shoulder to address Elise.

"What's wrong?" she asks. And the concern on her face is so obviously genuine, that Callen almost feels bad for deceiving her in the first place. Except, he doesn't have the capacity to worry about any other creature in the universe at the moment besides the distraught one lying in his arms. "Is she hurt? Should I call-"

"No," Callen says, perhaps too brusquely. But he just doesn't have the patience for anyone or anything. Not while Nell is hurting so badly. "She's..." (not even remotely) "...fine."

Elise stands there with an incredulous look on her face. And he just wants her to go away.

"She's just... There's been a death in the family," Callen says. He hadn't wanted to reveal that. It wasn't his place. It wasn't his burden, his pain. He had no right to expose it, to draw out the automatic, superficial sympathy it garners from the dark haired woman standing on his lawn, gawping at the tragic scene.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she says.

"Thank you, Elise," he says in a tone that clearly states 'go away.' The woman, finally, gets the message and departs, glancing back at them several times as she makes her way towards her own house.

Callen now knows there _is_ something he can do. He can protect Nell Jones, take care of her, even if he can't ease her pain. He scoops the destroyed little red-head up into his arms and carries her into his home, lying her gently on the sofa that she seems to spend so many (and yet not enough) nights, on which he sometimes sits beside her, shrouded in pleasant and warm closeness.

"I'm going to make tea," he says, taking her slender fingers and gently untangling them from his shirt to place those delicate hands on her stomach. She only looks at him, with big, shining, red rimmed eyes. He notices there are little flecks of red marring the vulnerable skin around her eyes, the fragile capillaries having burst from the intensity of her crying fit. He wants to run his thumb gently over the thin, damaged skin, as if he could magically wipe the subcutaneous speckles of blood away. But he can't.

Instead, he heads for the kitchen to fill the kettle with water and sort through Nell's teas to find a caffeine-free, herbal one. Peppermint. His mind wanders to Nell's family. _A car accident. Her sister. _But which one? She has two. Dorothea is three years older, married a year, with a young baby. A young baby who no longer has a mother? Oh, god. But what if little Roger was with her, too? Or the six-month old could've lost both his parents. Or the entire family... Callen doesn't like the thoughts. It's pointless to think them, when he doesn't know the facts. But he won't ask for the details, even if Nell never does tell him. He won't force that intimacy from her, to weasel his way into her grief. And yet, he can't stop wondering. Because if it's not Dorothea, it's Alice. Alice, the sophomore in college, studying environmental science and socialism, with the mind of an activist and the heart of a Buddhist monk. Alice, who Nell talks about with such affection and pride. Gone.

It hurts even him, whose only connection to these individuals is through Nell herself, the stories she's told him. He cannot imagine what it's like to be in her shoes... her _soul_ at this moment. He was too young to remember the sharp pain of loss of his own family. In the glimpses he gets, it's mostly a confusion as to why they're gone, why he's alone. It still hurts. But it's the pain of not having something you never really possessed. How much worse is it to have something, _someone_ you know and love torn from you?

The metal teapot with the chipped floral design (another thrift store special, since Nell insists he not spend too much money accommodating her), whistles a welcome distraction and Callen fills a mug (_her _mug) with the steaming hot liquid, the aroma of mint rising into the air. He hopes it soothes her even just a little, as he carries the warm porcelain, walking slowly from one end of his house to the other, his footsteps echoing uncomfortably in the primarily vacant space. He gingerly sets the steaming mug down on the coffee table and kneels besides the sofa.

Nell looks to be about a million miles away, staring at a distant point that one could confuse with the beige ceiling. Maybe he shouldn't, but he just can't help himself. He brushes the bangs off from her forehead, lets his fingers lightly caress her wet cheek.

"Nell?"

There are silent tears streaming down her face, and she won't meet his eyes. What can he do? What can possibly do to make it better?

"I made you tea." Wow. He really is no good at this. Her eyes seem to focus slightly, slide to him, but quickly return to that distant place. He takes one of her hands -they're still lying where he placed them on her stomach- and massages the small, slender fingers. He gives the other hand the same treatment, and when he looks up, discovers that he's gotten her attention.

"What can I do for you?" he asks. She shakes her head slowly, her damp eyes shimmering.

"I... I don't kn-know." Her voice cracks, the raw agony in it cutting him like a knife. But he's not going to give up. He needs to take care of her.

"What do you need?"

Nell closes her eyes and inhales deeply, releasing it slowly before she opens her hazel eyes again.

"I need to brush my teeth," she says, much to Callen's bemusement, until she clarifies by adding, "I'm sorry... about your lawn."

Oh, right.

"Don't worry about that, Nell." Shit! Her purse and cell phone! Did she even disconnect that phone call properly? Who gave her the news? Were they now worrying about Nell as well? "I'm going to get your bag, though. Okay?"

She nods and he heads for the door, pausing to check on her before he leaves the room. She's pushing herself into a sitting position. And either she's coming out of the shock, or just entering it, because she seems more self-composed. She should be fine for a minute or two.

He hesitates briefly, standing in his front lawn with Nell's bag in one hand, her cell in the other, staring down at the glowing screen, debating with himself. Should he make the call, let whomever delivered the sad news know that Nell is okay... well, physically, anyway, that she isn't alone? Or is that beyond the bounds of their friendship?

He accesses the 'received calls' menu, and clenches his jaw. 'Mom' the screen reads. And there's been several 'missed calls' from Nell's mother. He _has_ to let the poor woman know her daughter is safe and sound, because one of them is never going to be safe and sound again, and he can't begin to fathom that sort of pain. More nervous than he's ever been while making a phone call, even to hostage takers and terrorists, he takes a deep breath before pressing 'send'. The phone rings only once and a woman with a weary voice answers. As he feared, it is the _worst_ phone call he's ever had to make. The heartbreak is tangible from half a continent away. He keeps it short, for his own sake, as much as Mrs. Jones'. He reassures the woman that Nell is shaken but fine, that he won't leave her daughter alone with her grief. She thanks him, her voice shifting to a sincerely grateful tone, and he can barely issue a farewell and wrap up the call for the lump in his throat. He takes a minute to stare at the blue, cloudless sky and attempt to clear his head, before returning to the house, and Nell Jones.

He finds her in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub with her face in her hands. When he crouches down before her, she lifts her face ever so slightly, to reveal her red, puffy eyes, and skin that must be raw and stinging from the tears she has shed. He retrieves a washcloth, wets it with warm water, and then sets to gently, as gently as he possibly can, given it's something he's never done before, washing Nell's face. He feels her lean into his touch and sigh quietly. And when he's done she whispers a faint 'thank you.'

She looks utterly exhausted. And he can't blame her. She's been emotionally gutted, and there's a long road still ahead.

"Do you want to sleep?" he asks.

She nods.

"Do you want to go home?"

Her big hazel eyes, still red-rimmed, plead with him.

"I don't want to be alone," she says quietly.

God, how he could leave her alone like this? "You won't be, Nell. I promise. But would you like me to take you home?"

"Yes." Quiet as a mouse. Not at all Nell-like. Because despite, or maybe because of, her petite stature, she never seems to have a problem with expressing herself clearly, with making herself be heard.

He reaches out for her and she takes his hand.

"What do you need besides your bag?" he asks, helping her to her feet.

"My phone." Her eyes widen. "Oh, shit! My mom! I-I hung up on her!"

She scrambles to open the bag he's holding out to her, and begins to root through it.

"Don't worry about it," he says, hoping she won't freak out on him for the liberty he's taken. "I talked to her. She knows you're safe."

Nell's eyes seem to widen even further. "You... you talked to my mom?"

"Uh... yeah." He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. "She said she'd call you tomorrow morning with more details. She...uh..." He swallowed. "She made me promise to make sure you got some rest."

Her brief surprise is replaced by the sadness that he knows will haunt his dreams. The whole situation is so very beyond his ability to deal with, making him feel severely out of his depth. But he can't escape the discomfort of witnessing a friend's misery, because he cannot leave Nell alone like this.

And so he takes her home, allows himself to be led through her tidy apartment to her bedroom, kicks off his boots, climbs onto the narrow bed and wraps his arms around Nell Jones, cradling her against his chest as she cries herself to sleep.

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**A/N: Poor Nell. It's bad news for her that she's my favourite **_**NCIS:LA **_**character. But at least she gets Callen to take care of her.**


	7. Ch 7: Grieving Pt2

**Author's Note: Sorry guys for the delay. Especially since 95% of this has been written since I was on vacation last month :-) It just needed a couple paragraphs at the end, but I've been so busy. I know 'writer's block' is a thing, but I suffer from the opposite… SO MANY IDEAS AND NO TIME TO WRITE THEM ALL! (woe is my life, I know.)**

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In those first few moments between sleep and wakefulness, the world seems like its normal self, like the place it's always been. And then like a solar eclipse, the world grows instantly dark. But the ground doesn't fall completely out from under her and let her tumble down into the abyss. Because there's someone holding her up, _holding her_.

And then Nell Jones remembers. The phone call from her mother. Her sister, her baby sister... dead. There's a lump in her throat and a tight knot in her chest. But she's not alone. She's not alone and somehow that's comforting to her. His arms are wrapped about her, one around her waist, the other across her shoulders and upper chest, his body a solid warmth against her back. If she concentrates, pushes everything else out of her mind, she can feel the strong, steady beating of his heart.

He must know she's awake, because his arms tighten around her, his warm breath tickles her neck and then her ear as if he's about to whisper something to her. But he says nothing. And she can't blame him. This sort of highly emotional, highly personal interaction is not his thing. But G Callen has a good heart and a compassionate soul, and he's instinctively giving her everything she needs.

"Thank you for staying with me," Nell says, knowing he's awake even though he hasn't said a word. She shifts and he releases her to roll over on her side to face him. He's studying her in that intent way of his once again. And she doesn't care if he sees the gaping hole in her heart, if it makes him think her weak. But he wouldn't think that, would he? He knows her better than that. And she knows him better than that. And she is grateful for his keeping her company. She would've been grateful had it been any other person she considered a friend. But with Callen, she finds herself even further appreciative of just how much he cares. Because holding her through the night is no simple act for the habitual insomniac. He was probably awake more than he was asleep. But still, he held her, didn't leave her alone for a second.

"You don't have to thank me, Nell." He reaches a hand out, hesitates, then seems to decide it's okay to gently touch the side of her face. The concern in his eyes creates a different sort of knot in her throat. He smiles softly at her and withdraws his hand. "Breakfast."

"I'm not hungry," she says, even though it wasn't exactly put to her as a question.

"You need to eat." He's going all stern on her, that softer side of him retreating. "You skipped dinner, too."

Yes, she had. Because her sister is _dead_. The grief hits her in a wave, out of nowhere. Maybe this is what it will be like for the rest of her life. The everyday moments distracting her, making her forget until suddenly she remembers that her sister is no longer in the world, that she'll never talk to her again, see her again, hug her, laugh with her, cry with her. And that's just the selfish side of grief, she knows. Nell doesn't even want to consider all of the moments that have been stolen from her sister, all the experiences the young woman will never have.

"If I make pancakes, will you eat them?"

He's still staring at her, evaluating her. Can he see the melancholic turn of her thoughts? That she's being sucked slowly back down into the black despair?

"Maybe." She honestly doesn't know. Perhaps she'll find herself starving when she's sat down in front of a stack of warm flapjacks dripping with butter and syrup. Or perhaps, they'll only make her stomach turn in disgust over her selfish desires. Because her sister is dead.

"I think I'll just stay here for a while, though."

"In bed?" he asks. He's obviously never dealt with depression the way normal people do. But maybe that's because he's never had a safe harbor before, a place that just calls to him, a bed that seduces you into crawling under the covers, warm and cozy and you'll never have to face the world again. Because the world is cruel. But she knows G Callen is well aware of that fact. She's not strong like him, though. He's a survivor. He fights. Maybe he's never had the opportunity to indulge in depression in the preferred manner of everyone else, despite the fact that she knows he has his dark moods (He probably just shoots something). Depression. It's disgusting, as well as debilitating. A first world, leisure problem for those with time to think lonely, melancholy thoughts, rather than scrabbling every waking moment for food, shelter, survival. But perhaps she has the right to indulge. She has the time and the pain. She just wants to curl up in a ball for awhile.

"Yes." She starts struggling with the blankets beneath her. The two of them had simply collapsed (well, she'd collapsed, anyway) on top of the covers and slept there all night. After a moment, Callen gets up, pulls back the blankets to let her wiggle under, and tucks her in.

"Breakfast in half an hour," he says before leaving her bedroom, closing the door behind him.

She doesn't sleep, really. Not a real REM slumber, anyway. But still, it would be easy to stay in that numb, cozy embrace for the rest of the day. And she thinks about doing just that, secure in the knowledge that when she feels ready to emerge, Callen will be there for her. He's a good guy.

However, her phone rings, and she's forced to engage in the second worst call of her life. Her mother sounds not at all like the woman Nell has known all her life, and who could blame her? It's nearly robotic, the way in which the gentle yet (usually) perpetually energetic woman relays information to her second youngest (now youngest living) daughter. The wake will be in two days. The services in three. But she doesn't need to rush home earlier. Is her mom serious? Of course Nell is leaving just as soon as she can straighten things around with work and book a plane ticket. She loves and misses them and she wants to be there. Her mother loves her more than anything.

Nell is crying again by the time the call ends. The need she has for a hug is indescribably intense, but she resists seeking out the friend she instinctively knows remains in her apartment, waiting for her, keeping an eye on her. Instead she heads for the bathroom and takes a long, hot shower, washing away the grime that uncomfortably coats her skin, and enjoying the feel of the delicious water pressure on her aching muscles. She feels sore all over, and with no real reason. It's easy to dismiss emotional distress as being all in the head, but it can have severe physical manifestations.

She pulls down her cozy robe, the extra plush one that is a size too big, and wraps herself up tightly in it, trapping the residual pleasant glow warming her skin. The smell of griddle-cooked cakes call to her from the kitchen and she follows the delicious aroma to its source, smiling as she sees G Callen busy at her stove. He's humming mindlessly as he flips the round pools of bubbling batter over, revealing a perfectly golden underside.

Her stomach growls audibly.

"Hungry?" he asks without turning around.

"Yeah." She sits down at her little round table in her small kitchen, where a place is already laid out for her. In a minute, a plate with an epic stack of pancakes appears before her. Okay, it's just three. But far more than she can usually manage, no matter how hungry she is. But she doesn't want to be rude, so she just pours syrup over the tower of pancake and takes a big bite, trying to say 'thank you' with a mouthful of deliciousness when a tall glass of milk is set before her.

Instead, she glances up to give the friend she by no means deserves an appreciative smile, feeling like a chipmunk with cheeks full of acorns. Callen gives her that friggen charming-as-hell grin of his before he fixes his own plate and sits down across from her. They eat for a few minutes in silence, and it's lovely. But then her brain begins to wander, and she knows that she needs to tell her pseudo-boyfriend what's going on. He's been so great to her, without more than a word's explanation, and he deserves to know what is going on. Besides, it will affect the arrangement they have made for getting Elise off his back.

"I'm leaving for Wisconsin as soon as I can clear it with Hetty and book a ticket," she says finally, after taking a large gulp of milk to wash away the spongy breakfast cake clinging to her esophagus.

"I already talked to Hetty," he says, only glancing up briefly from his plate. "I hope you don't mind."

Nell hesitates. She's not sure whether she cares. On the one hand, perhaps she should. What gives him the right to meddle in her business? On the other hand, it is one less thing she has to worry about. And she _does_/ trust him.

"Thanks," she says. He puts down his fork and looks at her. God, sometimes she hates that. It's like he can see straight into her fricken soul. It's evident what he's waiting for... the story, the truth of what has rent her heart in two.

"It's Alice."

He nods, looks away.

"She was at my parents house, visiting. Left just after dinner to head back to school. An oncoming car swerved into her lane. There was no time for her to react. She was dead when the first responders arrived on scene. The other driver died in the hospital. His blood-alcohol level was 0.17."

Nell watches his face, well, his profile anyway, as he swallows hard, his eyes distant and just a little wet. When he looks at her once more, he has his strong, immovable expression on, the one she recognizes as a mask he sometimes adopts when days are especially emotionally trying.

"I'll go with you." What? Why would he_-Oh_. He reaches out and takes her hand. "If you want me to."

It makes her warm inside to know that he cares so much, that he would travel to an unfamiliar place, surround himself with the grief-stricken, sit through long, depressing hours with her, just because it might comfort her. And it would. He would. But at the same time, she knows she'd feel that stupid, inevitable obligation, the awareness that he's there, that he is her responsibility, to introduce to people, to make sure he is comfortable. Not to mention her family's intrinsic obligation to a guest. He by no means is a demanding person, and she knows he would go out of his way to be no burden, but a stranger is a stranger in such circumstances, and her family is the type to reach out, to make all those around them comfortable, despite their own feelings. They would feel compelled to make small talk, to put him up in the guest room of their house... or with Nell, which she would admittedly prefer. The primary reason she's considering it at all is for the warm embrace he has to offer, the safety and serenity of lying in his arms at night. But not only would that be taking advantage of his compassionate nature, it would complicate her life in ways she doesn't want. Mainly, in all of the explanations she'd be forced to give upon introducing the man. 'He's my.. um..._ friend_...' Yeah, that's a barrel full of stress on its own.

"I appreciate the offer, G," she says. "I really do. But this is something I have to do on my own."

He nods, releases her hand and returns his attention to the remaining few bites of pancake swimming in syrup on his plate. She watches him for a moment. He doesn't look offended by her rejection. But he wouldn't, would he? Guilt bites at her. And it's not just of a single variety. She feels guilty because she's about to leave the poor man hanging in the wind, unintentionally undoing any groundwork she may have laid in convincing Elise that her handsome, blue-eyed neighbor is taken. Because if they were seriously involved, she would take Callen home with her, need him there, the comfort of the man she loves while she grieves the loss of her sister. Which brings her to the other guilt that rose up fast, threatening to unsettle the pancakes sitting heavy in her belly. How can she think of anything but her baby sister? Is it not an insult to Alice to consider such petty things as the emotionally irresponsible game they were playing on a poor, kind-hearted, if a bit stalker-ish, woman?

Nell smiles. Alice would've loved to hear this story. She briefly regrets not telling her about the operation her coworker roped her into during their last skyping conversation. And she would approve of Nell helping a friend out, had always teased Nell, but also praised her about her active brain, the multitasking that would have her 'head in the clouds', and her attention to details… but no one was as thoughtful as Alice.

"You should stay in my apartment while I'm gone," Nell says, after finishing off her last bite of pancake and considering the logistics. Callen gives her a curious look. "If Elise doesn't know the reason why, she'll think we broke up when I'm not around for a week. Or that we had a fight. Either way, that weakens our pseudo-relationship."

"She knows," Callen says quietly. A very rare expression is on his face, so rare that it takes Nell a moment to identify it as shame. "I told her. I'm sorry. I had-"

The memory returns to her, of lying, broken and sobbing in his lap on the front lawn, with Elise hovering over them, his convincing her to leave them alone with the blunt truth. Why couldn't he have just been that way with the woman in the beginning? Why did he have to recruit Nell? But then, she would've been alone when she received the terrible news. She wouldn't have the surprising comfort of the man's friendship.

"You have nothing to apologize for," she says. "But you should stay here. She'll think you went with me, which will only solidify the seriousness of our relationship in her mind."

"Are you sure, Nell?" He's looking at her with _those_ eyes again. But she somehow feels like it's a relief to know he'll be in her home when she's gone. And it's a bizarre notion that she simply does not have the time, or desire to consider at the moment. She only knows she wants him to be there when she gets home.

"Yes. I'm sure."

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**A/N: I know. I know. I promised some action for this story, too… And there will be in the future. But I'm enjoying the slow development of Callen and Nell's relationship. And I hope you are, too. However, there will finally be some progression with the primary story arc of Elise, the stalker-blogger neighbor very soon.**


	8. Ch 8: Watching

**Author's Note: A short, but necessary chapter to push the plot ahead a bit... thought I 'd forgotten about the whole stalking neighbor deception thing with all of the touchy-feely chapters, didn't you?  
**

**WARNING: SOME COARSE LANGUAGE**

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She hears a car pull into the driveway next door, and is drawn to the window like a moth to the flame. And it _is_ a compulsion, isn't it? Over the two years, seven months since she's met Gorman McKinnen, she's been unable to resist the pull of the man on her heart. Those gorgeous blue eyes of his, the center of the entire universe. That rarest of events, the most beautiful smile she's ever seen in her life. And she knows, with every fiber of her being, she knows, that he needs her. That she's made for him, is the only one that can make him truly happy. Because, yes, that dark edge of his hasn't gone unnoticed. She's not blind to the man's flaws, by any means, which only goes to show that she's not just infatuated with him, suffering some silly crush. She knows him. He belongs with her, Elise Traver. Not with some silly, ridiculously young, red-headed slut.

They have a connection. It's obvious. Why else would he listen to her so intently at the few neighborhood gatherings he'd attended over the years, engaging her in conversation, really engaging her, not just nodding his head and smiling distractedly, as so many others do to her. And when he touched her arm to get her attention that one time... he must have felt the electric shock of their bare skin meeting. How could he not? And their morning moments, when they pick up the newspaper, and his bright, intense blue eyes smile at her... Sometimes they talk. And sometimes they don't. But there is always a connection there... even if he refuses her invitation to dinner. It's because he's scared. He's damaged. That much is obvious. Someone has done a number on his heart, but when he's ready to heal, she'll be there for him. Except... he's turned to some other woman, and even though it can't possibly be serious, there's a seed of doubt planted in her breast. Because he's not rushing to _her_ door with such intensity.

Gorman practically sprints to his front door and disappears inside. The red-haired tart isn't with him.

Elise chews her lip. He's wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday, and that could be interpreted several ways. The obvious significance is that he's spent the night at his jail-bait squeeze's place. Elise is not delusional enough to attempt to deny that obvious fact. But the interesting bit is that he _is_ wearing the same clothes as yesterday. As in, he keeps none of his things at her place.

But _she _does keep things at his.

This is also an undeniable fact. Elise has kept an eye on the girl who she instinctively felt to be a threat to her unwitting paramour. She's noticed her comings and goings are frequent, but she's always fresh the morning after... after... well, Elise cannot think of what the little blood-sucker does to her beautiful blue-eyed man. She does not see the appeal in the tiny, pale thing. Of course, she knows her Gorman would never be so shallow as to only be attracted to a woman for her looks. But she cannot believe that the red-head has any personality whatsoever. She must just be easy. And a good time in bed. But those sort of wiles grow tiresome after a time.

At least, that's what Elise used to believe about the whole ginger demon-whore situation, that Gorman had been seduced or tricked somehow, but he'd soon see through the vapid little bitch. Except his behavior yesterday afternoon... the way he looked at the pale young woman, the way he cradled her close, tenderly scooped her up into his arms and carried her inside. And then later, escorted her out, tucked her up into the passenger seat of her annoyingly red little car (as annoyingly bright as her hair, flashy as her smile, and cute as her disarming facade) to doubtless drive her home...

No. Gorman McKinnen is not going to wake up on his own.

The object occupying every thought and emotion within her reappears, emerging from his front door with _the bag_. Its appearance always means a sustained absence on his part. It may be a day. It may be a month or two. But Elise knows the significance of it well, loathes it, feels the pain of its appearance like being stabbed in the heart. He's going away.

And now, now it's even worse. Because now, it means he is going to _her_.

Elise watches, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over as he gets into the demon-woman's car, pulls out of the driveway, and... _disappears_.

It hurts her. A physical pain to see him go, out of her reach, beyond the range of her careful, adoring eye, maybe forever. He may never come back. And even if he does, it won't be to Elise. It will never be to her.

Not while _she_ is around.

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**A/N: What's with Callen's weird alias? Stay tuned for an explanation, some more Nell and complications resultant from 'the girlfriend op'. **


	9. Ch 9: Confusing

**Author's Note: Glad to hear you all are enjoying this one. So, here's another update (since the last was rather short for this fic).  
**

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The world, _his _world, his neat, tidy, understandable world, has changed. For most of his life, he'd felt just so damn unstable, like he had no control over anything, where he lived, who to consider friends or family, even his clothes and the food he ate. He'd been alone in a system that dictated everything to him and yet failed to provide anything remotely resembling stability. It took most of his adult life, but he found his place, crafted it around him. His job was a good one, one that surrounded him with people that were more than coworkers. His partner was the most reliable man to ever walk the face of the earth, and the best friend he'd ever had. And if he was honest with himself, Hetty was the closest thing he'd ever had to a mother. He even bought a house, a permanent residence to come home to.

And then he went and kissed Nell Jones.

It hadn't been like _that_. And yet, the effect was sort of the same, _is_ sort of the same. She's almost all he thinks about. Not always the primary thought in his head, but always, _always_ there. How is she? Is she okay? Is she eating, sleeping, taking care of herself? Is her family giving her the attention she needs, despite their own deep grief? Is her heart still broken or has it started to mend?

He finds himself wishing he was with her, wishing he had insisted on accompanying her. But she was right, of course. She doesn't need the extra stress of toting an uninvited guest along with her. Her family doesn't know him. How uncomfortable would he have made them? They would've been forced to accommodate him, ask polite questions, make small talk, when they were all suffering freshly fractured hearts. No, that would've been profoundly inconsiderate of him. Yet, he believes, he likes to believe, that he would've been some small comfort to Nell.

The compromise had been to drive her to the airport, where, when he'd pulled up to the terminal to drop her off, he kissed her. Okay. It wasn't that sudden and inappropriate. She looked at him. He told her "Anything... anything at all... Just call me." She thanked him, but rather than hop out of the car to collect her bags, she continued to look at him. Look at him with those beautifully complex hazel eyes of hers, filled with heartbreak and gratitude and... desperate loneliness begging for human affection. He reached out, cupped her face in his hand, her soft, warm cheek filling his palm as she leaned into his touch. And then he'd leaned into her, pressed his lips softly against hers in a chaste kiss. It was a gesture that lasted only a couple of seconds, longer than a brief peck, but essentially the same. Nothing abnormal between friends... well, between some friends. But they, neither of them, are the sort to kiss a friend on the mouth, even if it were only the briefest of touches, the lightest of pressures, with no movement of lips, and absolutely no hint of tongue or teeth or open mouths.

But perhaps they _are _that sort of friend, after all. The rare kind where touch is not only acceptable, but expected and desired, without the complications of sexual or romantic obligation. He's still trying to figure it out. Because Nell Jones is an entirely new element in his life. He doesn't have a compartment in which to place her, a role she should play, accompanied by a fixed set of rules and guidelines to dictate his behavior and feelings towards her. She's simply 'Nell' and what she means to him is entirely open to exploration, definition and redefinition.

He supposes staying in her apartment while she's away isn't helping much. He knows he should -and he'd fully intended to- crash on her sofa, but that first night, he walked right through her living room into her bedroom and laid down on her bed, the scent of her strong on her pillow, lulling him into a rather pleasant sleep. He sometimes woke grasping at the air, instinctively thinking she was nearby and trying to pull her close. In her shower, he caught himself smelling the various bottles of shampoo, conditioner and body wash, categorizing the scent and attempting to match them to the unique olfactory signature Nell has left imprinted upon his brain. He studies the photos of her family and friends placed at various points in her home. He tries not to snoop or pry, but admittedly fingered through the dresses hanging in her closet once. He hopes she doesn't consider his perusal of her bookshelves a violation of her privacy. Because he's already pulled down a couple novels that looked to have been extremely well read, and finished them cover to cover in the four days she's been gone. He wonders if they're really her favorites, or just second hand acquisitions. The composition of her rather large (given the size of her apartment) library confirms his suspicions about the complexity of the young woman. Nell Jones just might possess the most complicated mind he's ever encountered. There are archaeology, mathematics and psychology texts mixed in with engineering and handicraft manuals, trashy romance novels, classic literature, advanced language texts, volumes of science fiction, graphic novels, and histories of Mesopotamia, the USSR, Bali, gunsmithing and espionage.

And yet, she's also one of the most real, down-to-earth persons he's ever met, as vulnerable to heartbreak as any of them, capable of great kindness and selfish acts (such as stealing the last chocolate donut) alike. Cranky as hell in the morning, thoughtful and considerate most other times. Smart and witty, yet freely laughing at humor as common as Three Stooges-style slapstick.

G Callen misses the petite red-headed girl. And he's not sure how he's going to readjust when their agreement is over and his time with her dwindles down to what it was before, before he decided to do something about his blogging neighbor, before he unwittingly invited Nell Jones into the center of his life.

To tell the truth, he's sort of grateful for the case they've pulled this week. It's horrific, but at least it's a distraction for him. Or at least, he thought he was focusing on the case pretty well.

"Where you at, G?" Sam Hanna asks. Callen blinks. He'd been staring at the beat-up book sitting beside a computer terminal in ops. He knows it's Nell's for a number of reasons, including the gap between volumes one and three of its title in the second to the top shelf in the bookcase above her sofa, and the fact that Eric treats the young woman's possessions as sacrosanct. Nell must have left it there Thursday last, and Eric has not dared move it, like her workspace is a shrine. He probably even thinks it's bad luck to touch it, might jinx Nell's imminent return to them. If this borderline obsessive crush continues, Callen will have to have a talk with the younger man, provided that Nell won't murder him for what she would doubtless deem 'interfering'.

"G?"

"Right," he pushes the thoughts about the absent intelligence analyst aside with another blink, and them commences to issue orders. Kensi and Deeks depart to sit in on the autopsy of the latest victim, while he and the big guy are looking forward to an all-nighter sitting in the Challenger outside of the apartment complex where their lead suspect's former partner-in-crime resides. And Callen is not enthused about the hours of quietude. In other circumstances, he might not mind. He would feel confident in his generally high level of patience. When he loses his temper, he definitely loses it. But it takes a lot to make him antsy. But now… Hours with nothing to do but sit around and watch a dark building... and _think_. Nell is going to be haunting him hard.

As he waits for Sam to grab his gear, he cracks the tendons in his neck, feeling tense just considering it. But it was right to send Kensi and Deeks to the coroner. Because he was admittedly (if only to himself) distracted, and wasn't confident in retaining the sort of facts the autopsy would present, let alone putting the pieces together. He smiles inwardly, as he realizes that if their positions were reversed, Nell Jones would have no problem multitasking. She would simultaneously be able to worry about him and help solve the case.

"Ready?"

"Yes," he says quickly, and begins to stride for the exit, as if it will cover the fact that he was letting his mind wander once more. His partner easily keeps pace with him.

After he slides into the passenger seat of the nouveau-muscle car, tossing his gear into the backseat alongside his partner's, Callen expects to hear the car engine turn over, roaring and then settling into its familiar purr. However, it remains as quiet as a disinterested feline. He looks as his fellow agent, who's giving him the standard Sam Hanna Scrutinizing Look. Callen refuses to bend under the intense and inquisitive stare, and remains silent. After a moment, Sam Hanna looks away, starts the car and turns his attention to driving.

Callen knows better than to think he's gotten a free pass from having to explain his unfortunately blatantly distracted state of mind. And he's not sure whether it's a good thing or not that it takes Sam Hanna about two hours of staring at a dormant brick building on a rather vacant street before he brings up the subject of conversation that has more or less plagued Callen's thoughts the entire stakeout.

"It doesn't seem to be the case," Sam Hanna says, playing it off-handedly chill, as usual for the ex-seal. "So what's bothering you, G?"

"It's not the case." Callen's not going to lie to his best friend. Yet, he's not sure he's going to tell all, either. It's just a little embarrassing. Well, a lot embarrassing. On several levels. He hasn't told the man about his arrangement with Nell, due to the likely unending (and well-deserved) ribbing he would receive about his inability to shake one slightly smitten neighbor. But it's also embarrassing how much he's let this arrangement with Nell get out of control. True, it could be worse. They could've actually done something stupid, like sleeping together... well, okay, technically they've slept together several times. But they've never engaged in anything sexual. Or romantic... Well, he _did_ kiss her. But that wasn't... It was... It...

"You worried about Nell?" Callen studies his friend for any sign that he already _knows_, that he somehow can read his partner's thoughts. "I'm sure she's fine. It's rough losing someone. But she's tough."

Callen nods, silently. If he's ever going to tell Sam what's going on... if he's ever going to tell anyone, now's the time. But, he can't. He just can't. It's so stupid. He feels so silly, to be so confused and worried about the young woman just because they've spent some time together.

"So how long have you two been hooking up?" Sam asks, making Callen suck in enough air as to practically inhale the small lollipop in his mouth and choke. After he coughs for several seconds, he's finally able to regain his breath and look his friend in the amused and sparkling eye. Well, Callen should be glad, that if Nell and his arrangement had been good enough to fool his best friend into thinking they were in some sort of relationship, then Elise doubtless has to be drawing the same conclusion. But-

"We aren't dating."

"I didn't say _dating_," Sam says, looking a bit more serious, yet still amused.

"We're not having sex, either."

Sam raises an inquiring eyebrow. Callen sighs. There's no avoiding it now.

"I asked her to pretend to be my girlfriend in order to convince Elise that I'm not 'on the market'."

Sam laughs. Of course. Hell, Callen would, too, if he hadn't suffered the stress of being the focus of such an intense, unrequited crush.

"G, why don't you just talk to the woman?!"

"You don't think I didn't try?" He can't help but let the exasperation into his voice. "I tried using body language and behavioral cues, but the subtlety was lost on the poor woman. And so I tried more obvious routes. I never once accepted an invitation of hers. I started being extremely curt whenever she tried to start a conversation...

"But she's just one of those people who only hears what she wants to hear."

"And so you thought parading Nell around as your girlfriend would somehow get through to her? G, if she's so involved in her own fantasy world, she's not going to... You didn't!"

"Didn't what?"

"You know..." Sam suddenly seems quite uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, shifting in the bucket seat slightly. "Do a Kinky Karen?"

"What?! No!" Callen feels the blood rush to the surface of his skin in a blush of embarrassment the likes of which he hasn't felt since his youth. "I told you we never had sex."

"You don't have to actually... _do it _to do it."

"I did not ask Nell to fake having sex with me in a situation manufactured for Elise to catch us in the act. I would never-"

"Okay. Okay." Sam throws his hands up in a placating gesture. "I'm just curious how you got Nell to agree to this, since it's obviously going to take a while for your crushing, blogging neighbor to get the message."

Now it's Callen's turn to shift uncomfortable in his seat. "I agreed to owe her a favor of her choosing, no questions asked."

"You realize that little pixie can be quite devious, right, G?"

"Yeah."

Sam chuckles and shakes his head. "You're so screwed, man."

"Probably."

_Definitely. _

Callen had no idea what Nell Jones would ask in return. In the beginning she hadn't known either. At least, that's what she told him. He'd only been thankful that his reputation was enough to convince the young woman a favor from him was worth all the trouble she'd have to go through. Owing Nell had seemed worth it at the time, as Elise's sickeningly smitten looks and awkward 'spontaneous meetings' only seemed to increase by the week. A few days before her sister... Nell said she had an idea what she would call in the favor for... It's something Callen doesn't like to contemplate, for fear his brain might explode.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to consider it now, either, for Sam interrupts his thoughts once more.

"So, why'd you go to Nell in the first place?"

This wasn't too difficult, for he'd given it thought when the notion of deceiving his neighbor into getting over her crush had first occurred to him.

"She's smart. And she's capable. And my only other option was Kensi."

Sam raised his eyebrows as if to say 'surely the more experienced undercover agent would've been the better choice.'

"I'm not necessarily saying it's a bad thing, but Kensi _would_ tell her partner."

There was no way she could keep it a secret, especially with their _thing_. Callen didn't have to say that she'd also likely be made unhappy and irritable because spending the time with Callen would mean she wasn't spending the time with her partner-lover-whatever-the-hell-they-were.

"And Deeks would blab," Sam finishes Callen's original line of logic.

"So sue me, I didn't want it spread about the whole office that I can't handle something as simple as convincing a woman to back off... That I had to recruit help and run a little fake relationship ploy using Nell."

To be honest, he couldn't fathom using Kensi for such a thing. He never admitted, especially not in his recruitment spiel to Nell, who also wondered why he hadn't gone to Kensi, that the reason he didn't ask the brunette was that he didn't think of Kensi _in that way_. That having to fake romantic interest in her those few times they used such a cover had been extremely difficult. The thought of having to kiss her, which might be necessary to convince Elise, sort of made him sick to his stomach. He loved the younger woman. But not evenly remotely in a romantic way. The scary thing, the reason why he didn't inform Nell of his primary reason for not going to Kensi for help, was that it implied that he might _not _not think of Nell _in that way_. That was to say, he could consider kissing Nell Jones without an instinctive reversion. And now, now when he considers kissing her, it's with more than a little bit of anticipation.

So not good.

"I really like her, Sam," he says quietly.

"I can tell, G," Sam says. "It's obvious she likes you, too."

_Really? Oh, crap._

"We're just friends." Callen wills it to be truth. But that's silly. Because it is Truth. There's nothing else between them. They're just close friends. He's only slightly confused because he's never been so close to someone before, not even his lovers, not even Tracy.

"Guess we'll see in a few months."

Sam Hanna is dangerously close to being psychic where his partner is concerned. It's too eerie. Callen loves the big guy, but maybe it's time to consider getting a new partner, one that can only anticipate his moves in tactical situations, and not pluck private thoughts from his head.

"How'd you know we agreed for the arrangement to last three months?"

Sam shrugged.

"It takes more than a few dates and a couple weeks to make a woman believe a man's serious."

"Well, thank you, Dr. Love." Perhaps he's laying the sarcasm on thick, but it makes Callen feel better to be in more familiar, teasing territory with his partner. "Maybe I should've just had you talk to Elise."

"Yes," Sam says, picking up the camera to click a few photos of a shadowy figure as it passes through the lone streetlight on the sidewalk. "You should have."

Callen sighs, mentally agreeing with his friend. His life was a whole lot simpler before Nell became so entangled in it.

* * *

**A/N: I know I use the Sam-Callen stakeout scene a lot in my fics, but it seems to be a natural place for them to share, especially when one of them is confused by feelings he's having for a certain red-headed intelligence analyst. **


	10. Ch 10: Shopping

**Author's Note: So I know I've used tags for season five episodes in this fic, but I'm sort of ignoring the Kensi being reassigned story arc, because I don't want to have to work in all of the baggage that entails, when this fic is primarily about Nell and Callen, and not mopey, heartbroken Deeks. I may regret this later, when I want to work in more episode tags, but guess those will just have to be separate fics in the event of inspiration.**

* * *

Pork ribs or sirloin steaks? Or should she head for the seafood section and get some salmon? She would just ask G what he thought but he's off at the other side of the grocery store, picking up some beer.

Oh, god. What is she doing?! She's behaving as if she's been completely domesticated. Okay, granted she's always had that gene in her, handed down from mid-western housewife to daughter for generations. So perhaps not so troubling. But the fact that the habitually wandering, lone wolf agent is behaving just as domesticated is a surprising, and troubling, realization. Almost as troubling as the fact that she's caught herself often using his first name, even in her own head. Well, initial, but it's all he has, and it's much more personal than she's ever wanted to be with the man.

But she is wearing his engagement ring, practically living in his house, and sleeping with him... Well, not in _that_ way. But lying in his arms at night is still a rather scandalous intimacy for people who supposedly don't want anything from one another more than basic friendship. Which brings her back to _what the hell is she doing?!_

Helping him host a party to celebrate a fake engagement, which she must have been out of her mind to agree to in the first place... such a bad idea. She must have lost it. Nell Jones' brain must have officially imploded. Because, what good would convincing Elise-the-blogging-neighbor that they were engaged do? They can't maintain this ruse forever -no matter how lovely it is cozying up with the man at night. Five more weeks, and it is over. She simply can't let it go on longer than they'd agreed. Because they are just friends. And that is all they will ever be. But the closeness between them is giving her ideas, confusing her.

Speaking of confused... She settles on ribs, for G and Deeks and Kensi, but decides to pick up some salmon to throw on the grill, as well, for Sam, Michelle and Hetty. Maybe hot dogs for the kids. And enough extra portions to cover the neighbors, in case her 'fiancé' changes his mind about inviting them. The show of the party is designed for one particular neighbor, but apparently he's just hoping the nosy woman will notice the shindig, because inviting neighbors -in G Callen's opinion- is just opening the door for much more invitations, and the dreaded 'stop by for a chat.' So, as per usual for the complicated mind of the socially withdrawn federal agent, he is approaching the situation in a roundabout way. Personally, she thinks it rather elaborate to-

"Thank you," she says, smiling to amend for her lack of attention as the monger hands her the package of salmon she's requested. Placing it in the cart, she heads for the produce section, trying to decide which of the five different side recipes she's outlined will go best with ribs and salmon. And then cursing G Callen again for switching on her dormant housewife gene. He is so going to pay for all of this.

To be honest, she sort of just lets him dig himself in deeper and deeper. Because she didn't object to pretending to be engaged, despite the fact that she thought it would ultimately achieve nothing. What will happen in a month and a half when she stops coming around? Elise seems the sort of clingy, obsessive woman who will doubtless attempt to catch him on the rebound. And yet, Nell agreed, with little thought, and no objection. And she doesn't think it's just due to G Callen's charming smile. It definitely wasn't because of his reasoning. It was probably -no- definitely because of the man himself, how much she enjoys his company, how it will justify spending even more time with him.

Mixed salad greens. Yes. With mandarin orange slices, walnuts and a citrus dressing. That should be a good side for salmon.

"Hello, there."

Having been entirely consumed by consumables, the menu and subsequent recipe list floating around in her brain, Nell literally jumped upon the interruption. She turns to find a familiar face and barely masters her expression, giving the woman she recognizes a fake confused look. _Do I know you? _And then, _you do look familiar..._

"I don't think we've officially met," the woman holds out her hand with a big, friendly smile. "I'm Elise, Gorman's neighbor."

_Gorman?! _Oh, right. Nell fights back the chuckle in her throat. She'd questioned Callen about the ridiculous alias when she'd found more than one piece of junk mail addressed to the name at his place. He'd winced and said that she'd have to ask Hetty why the man who owned his house had such an _unusual _name. Apparently the old spy had selected it in one of her strange moments of wit so subtle it was lost on everybody else. She had only informed Nell that it seemed somehow fitting, which, of course, had led Nell to do a little research. Gorman, origins from an old family of nobles, meaning 'blue', in modern interpretations, specifically 'blue-eyed.' Fitting indeed. And Nell just had to wonder how many other times those blue eyes of his got him in trouble. She's staring one such bit of trouble directly in the face.

"Nell." She takes the brunette's hand and shakes it firmly, catching the woman's downward glance and briefly faltering expression as she sees the small, elegant ring on Nell's finger. When Elise looks back up into Nell's face, that same, genial smile is firmly in place. Which does not comfort Nell in the least.

"Nice to meet you." Nell briefly considers inviting the woman to the engagement party as they stand there in an awkward silence next to the cantaloupe. But that's not her call.

"Um... I'd better get on with this. I'll see you around, yeah?"

"Yes. I'm sure," Elise says, smiling that same, almost _too friendly _smile, before the two women go their separate ways, pushing their carts in opposite directions. Nell heads for the citrus section and begins perusing the fruit on offer, taking up one here and there for examination.

"I like the way you handle those kumquats." A hand simultaneously slips around her waist, and she jumps for the second time in under ten minutes. How is she ever going to be an effective field agent when friendlies can take her by surprise in the fricken produce section of the supermarket?! She turns, which causes the kiss G Callen was about to place on her cheek to land at the corner of her mouth. Heat floods her face and she turns away knowing the blush is obvious on her pale skin. Which really isn't fair.

Nell picks up another of the small, round citrus fruits, catches Callen's eye, squeezes the fruit and then places it in the cart. He raises an amused eyebrow at her.

"They're best when hard." He gives her that most adorable lopsided grin. "But not too hard."

This time, he looks away, and Nell smiles to herself as she selects a few more of the fruits. The man is a ridiculous flirt, but a respectful one, too. Which is maybe why she always had been aware of the charm he possessed, but never known the sheer amount of innuendo he could posit. Somehow, they've fallen into the kind of closeness where some seemingly harmless flirting is acceptable. _Seemingly harmless. _Well, he sure takes her mind off from... _things_.

But there's a reason for all of this, isn't there?

"Oh, you'll never guess who I ran into, babe," she says, hazarding a glance to see how he reacts to the sickening endearment. They had a discussion not two days ago about ridiculous pet names and how neither of them could stand them, agreeing that perhaps it was because yes, they'd never been in the sort of serious relationship to garner such saccharine familiarity.

"Who's that, cupcake?" Oh, no... what did she just start?

"Why, your lovely neighbor, my cuddly-wuddly cowboy." He winces, but his eyes sparkle at her. He has _no_ _idea_ who he is playing with. "I was thinking, dill-pickle, that we should invite her to our little soiree."

"Mm... perhaps, my yummy strawberry kitten." Nell snickers, and then glares at him. Callen: point. "But I think she might be uncomfortable, seeing as it's just our _work_ friends."

"You're probably right." Nell says, giving him a look that asks 'Are you sure? This whole act _is _for Elise's benefit.'

And then Nell has a truly alarming thought, as Callen takes over steering the cart after leaning down to give her another peck on the cheek.

_It is for Elise's benefit, isn't it?_

* * *

**A/N: Uh-oh. I certainly hope someone involved in all of this knows what they're doing.**


End file.
